Sins of the Forest
by BlackRoseNecromancer
Summary: Willow Smoke has always been in the shadow of her older brother, Finch. And when she's chosen as the female tribute for District 7, her brother volenteers as the other tribute. Her jealousy gives wat to hate. But when the games begin, Willow comes to face a terrifiing clause: Had her brother volenteered his own life to protect her?
1. Chapter 1: Saddness Among the Trees

_**This contains spoilers for the actual Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. Please don't read if you haven't read her books.**_

_**Thanks!**_

_**Mayhem and Reaper~**_

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The morning rays of the dawn is the first thing that wakes me. That and the stench of the smog that clouds our air yearly. We must have left the window open. I turn away from the light, trying to get a few more moments of sleep before we work, but I realize that I actually have pushed my face into a warm, breathing mass.

I push myself up in fright, trying to make out who is laying next to me through blurry eyes. I normally spend my nights in the woods by myself, but last night was one of the rare occasions where I came home, to my drunken father and older brother.

Then it hits me: the fight that occurred yesterday. It chills me far beyond my thin little bones to know that my father said those things about us. Tears brim in my eyes, which oddly enough help clear my vision. The person next to me lay on his side, with a mop of shaggy black hair tumbling over his eyes and sun kissed skin tinted gold from the rays of the sun. Even though he had an angelic look, I can still see the scars that stained his hands, and the ugly purple bruises that painted his arms and face.

I grimace at the sight of Finch, my dear brother. Even though it is because of him that my shell has hardened, it still pains me to know that father was the cause of his bruises.

A horn blows, echoing off of the nearby trees. It startles me stiff, and jolts Finch awake. He bounces up, gray-blue eyes fully alert. They dart around before settling onto me. He grins warmly, welcoming me to the new day. I turn my head away, not meeting his eyes.

Suddenly, he curses. "Dad will wake up," he gasped. My head, against my will, quickly snaps back to look at him, probably with a look of disbelief and fear. He stands, grabs my hand, and yanks me up off the sorry mass of grubby blankets I called a bed. We dart through the small wooden shack that is our home, and we make it to the back door when a groan makes us freeze.

We stay very still, not even breathing. I hear the rustle of fabric in the back room, quickly followed by more grunts. Father will not go back to sleep, even after drinking so much, and yet we stay as still as statues, hoping that our dad will decide that today could be a day when he could sleep in.

The squeaks of the floorboards pause for a moment in time. I silently hope that he has gotten confused and will decide to turn around and go back to bed.

Instead he wails, "Finch! Willow! You damn vermin!"

The exact second when father began to scream, the grip Finch has on my hand tightens to the point of pain. Before I can whimper, I am being dragged across the yards of several of our neighbors. The early smog is thin today, but still I begin to cough like mad. I wouldn't be surprised if my lungs were suddenly charcoal black from all of the exhaust emitted from the factories.

Finch pulls me to the working site, where we pause to catch our breath. Finch's hands are on his knees as he gasps for the filthy air. I, however, fall to the ground and lay on my back, almost hyperventilating. The morning dew feels cool and relaxing against my warm flesh.

Unconsciously, my hand travels to my right eye, a common habit that occurs whenever I wake. My fingers graze the flesh around my eye socket, feeling no thick cloth at all. In panic, I sit up and feel my face, and yet all I feel is skin. _No, oh no . . ._

"Forget something?" Finch asks me, smirking. In his hand, he holds a black eye patch, clean and shiny. "It fell off while you were sleeping," he explains, smiling that smile of his.

I rip my eye patch from his hands, no thank you included, and slide it over my right eye. My fingers trace over the scar that runs down my right cheek, pain already flaring in my face.

_No, don't you cry. Don't you dare cry._

Standing up, I follow my brother into the woods to begin our weekend work. Twelve hours of hard tree cutting and chopping while breathing in this crud we call air. My stomach rubbles, making me wish I had stayed home to suffer the rath of my insensitive father, just so I could eat.

Ж

Even though we are a bit earlier than usual, already there are people milling about in the woods, hacking away at trees. All of them are scarred and thin, hacking their lungs out from the smog that has infested their chests since they breathed this air. Before the March of the Axe Men, adults and older teens fight for the best of axes to chop down trees with. At the Stumpers, younger children claim smaller axes and chop down the wood logs given to them on old tree stumps. This is where Finch and I part.

I start to head toward my post with the Stumpers when a hand grips my shoulder. I turn to see Finch grinning again, though I can tell it is just to reassure me. "I'll find some pine in the woods for us to add to our mid-day meal," he tells me as he walks to his Axing Team. Though I am jealous of him and despise his popularity, I always worry about him when he is working. I am relatively safe, because I'm in an area that has tree patches and is not heavily dense. All I do is chop foot long logs in half. But Finch goes into the densest part of the forest, and chops down one hundred foot trees. When the fall of the massive tree hits the ground, the noise vibrates the Earth even four miles away where I work. All us Stumpers tense up when we hear the booms, just waiting for the screams of sadness and fear when someone can't get out of the rang of the tree fast enough.

I don't say anything, just head to the group of Stumpers milling around, waiting for the attendance call. Many of them are in their mid-teens like me, but a few aren't even old enough to have their names in the reaping. When I arrive, many turn to look at me, then immediately face the other direction, whispering softly.

I can't tell you how much that hurts me. I know I seem mean, always in my shell, barely ever talking, but knowing that others are gossiping about me behind my back really hurts. That is another reason why I am envious of my brother: he never has to deal with this.

I claim a rusty short-handled ax from the pile of the dull bladed weapons from their pile next to the large barn where we store our wheel barrels. Lucky us, we got them a year ago. We used to have to carry our logs in large sacks that we slung over our backs. With the wheels barrels, work had improved by almost the double.

I stroll back to the stumps and sit down on one, far away from the rest of the group. These stumps are on a hill, making footing difficult while raising the ax. Never have I ever gone one day without losing my footing and sliding down the loose dirt hill. Not only that, but it is the longest walk to the barn house where we get our wheel barrels. I only like it here because it is close to the forest, where I feel at peace, where I feel closer to mother.

Mother died when I was eight, which was six years ago, during a house fire. Both she and her sister died in the sixth fire of that dry season. Her parents had died years before I was born, and I never met my grandparents. We didn't get any Wills or money, so we were still poor, but when father started to drink, our money fell downhill.

Finch and I were forced to take tesserae, two each. Finch takes one for himself, and I take one for me, but father makes us take one each for him too. He says that if we don't, he will make us work twice as hard for the money we need. I don't get why he can't work himself. I blame all that beer he buys with all the money Finch and I make.

The newest shipment of wood to be chopped has now arrived, and kids are filing into three lines, one for each pile of wood most recently dumped. I take my place at the back of the middle line, and patiently wait with my head down. I don't want to attract too much attention to myself: the Overseer has come. He is lashing out at children who are whining about not getting enough wood because the bigger teens have taken it.

The Overseer is a large burly man with a gruff beard, arms that look Red Wood branches (near the base of the tree!) and scars he has gotten proudly in the woods. His cold gray eyes make you want to shut up, and listen to him, if not go run and cower in a bear cave. Bears seem more merciful than he is.

I don't look up at him: he doesn't like that. He hates to be called Sir, Mister, or by his first name, which is Beverly. I can't blame him, that name totally does NOT fit his personality. We have to call him Master Axel, which is the title that each Overseer who is appointed the position receives.

By now, I've reached the front of my line. I'm handed a wheel barrel and I start to fill it with the remaining wood. Lucky for me, I can fill the whole barrel, which means more labor for me, but that also means more money at the end of the week. As I'm walking back to my stump, the wheel barrel threatening to tip over with the weight, I feel something dart forward and catch my foot. I stumble, losing a few logs. To my right, I hear a few elder kids snicker, and call to Master Axel, "Willow! Be careful, you klutz!"

The large Overseer turns and stomps my way. In panic, I scramble to pick up the three logs that have fallen. I chuck them back into the wheel barrel and straighten myself just in time to see the purple twisted face of Master Axel huffing smoke in my eye. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself, runt?"

I cower back, only because he expects me to. Master Axel likes to see us in fear and pain. "I tripped over someone's foot," I stutter. This is one of the rare occasions when I speak, just to keep myself from getting more scars and bruises.

Beverly would have none of it. He pushes me aside, and kicks my stomach with a steel tipped boot. I keel over and dry heave, because I have nothing to retch. He stomps a few paces ahead of me and dumps the contents of my wheel barrel over, scattering the wood logs all over. Next to me, the elder teens who tripped me snicker, though too quiet for Master Axel's snake-like hearing to detect. "Since you like to fool around on the ground, have fun picking up your logs, pipsqueak."

Face flushed from embarrassment, I crawl around on my knees, gathering the logs in my arms as quickly as I can. I know that I shouldn't because I'll suffer from splinters that will lodge themselves in my arms and infect them, but it's not the first time Master Axel has done this before.

I managed to collect all of the wood and raced to my stump. Parking the wheel barrel, I dump the wood into a pile next to the stump within and arm's reach. The whistle blows, signaling the March of the Axe Men. I steal a glance behind me, to see the men and women, ages sixteen to twenty-one marching into the forest. There are no wild animals in this area of the woods; we've already scared them away.

I see Finch marching up at the front of the group, head held high, his ax slung over his shoulder. Unlike him, the rest are cowering, backs hunched, axes dragging behind them. A few women look up at him dreamily.

I smile secretly, one of the few times that I ever smile these days. Finch may be my rock, but it's nice to see that he has friends. I've only got him.

As I split the wood in two halves and throw them into the wheel barrel, I start to hear the other Stumpers hum. It starts as a low call, so that the Overseer can't hear. But as he leaves to survey and torment another section of the field, the song lyrics get louder, to the point where I can make out the words. And I am extremely shocked by what I hear:

_Little runt, at her stump, hacking away for little pay_

_One eyed freak, she never speaks, poisons the light of day_

_Little runt, at her stump, she weeps when she's alone_

_One eyed freak, she never speaks, her gratitude is never shown_

_Little runt, at her stump, a klutz who is a Grinch_

_One eye freak, she never speaks, in the shadow of dear Finch_

As the chorus gets louder and louder, I feel my face grow warm. I know color is flushing into my cheeks, but I don't stop working. I know from many past experiences that if Master Axel comes back sees me shirking; he will beat me for sure. The man may be big, but he is as silent as a shadow.

Even so, I let a few tears roll down my cheeks, hidden by my long brown hair that hangs over my shoulders. That last line really hits me hard. I really hate it when people compare me to my older brother. It is not my fault that he looks like our mother with his dark hair and gray-blue eyes, whereas I don't look like either of my parents. Pale skin riddled with scars and calluses, golden brown hair that cannot be tamed, and one green eye where no one in my family has ever had green eyes. I think was just born with some odd mutation.

The chorus is now fading away because Master Axel is stomping towards us, holding a silver horn in his hands. I freeze and watch him closely, hoping that he will blow the five-tuned melody that signals our meal break. I can feel my surroundings slow down and stop, even the other kids who were singing are dead silent with anticipation.

The burly Overseer lifts his hands, pressed the little end of the horn to his lips, puffs his cheeks, and blows. A fierce sound pierces the silence of the forest, and a flock of crows caw in fright and take off. Five tunes cut into my brain painfully, but I don't mind. I quickly grab my wheel barrel and rush off to the old barn to dump my load of wood. My stomach growls with hunger as I bolt to the looming structure and park the barrel just outside the doors.

Just as the rest of the teens and kids, I hit the ground running to the slowly growing pile of chopped wood. I start chucking my halved logs by the armful into the towering heap, eager to get my work over with so I can go eat.

After my fingers scrape the metal of the wheel barrel, my feet respond out of habit. I dash away, barely dodging other speeding wheel barrels and kids, to the large barrel of stale bread, decaying fruit, and jugs of water so I can get my food before it's taken. I grab four loafs of bread, two bruised apples, and one jug of water before the older kids tackle me for it. Usually, they're practicing for the Games that will be occurring in two weeks, the Reaping beginning tomorrow afternoon.

Weighted down with the food, I make it to the clearing that my brother and I always eat at. No one knows about it except Finch and I. He's not there when I arrive, so I sit and wait. It's in a clearing of vines, a patch of sky lighting the grass. Three large stones sit in the middle, two smaller ones resting within the soil around a large flat boulder. It's like nature had this table and chairs waiting to be used.

I wait to eat; I don't want to until Finch comes back. When he does, he's all sweaty and gross, with a large cut on his right shoulder. It doesn't bleed, but is incrusted with dried blood. I stand in shock and worry, but he waves it off as if it were a fly.

"Check it out, Will," he says, referring to the nickname our mother commonly used. He holds out his hand and I see a large handful of bright, sappy pine. In his other hand he holds a stick of butter. He must have swiped it from his Overseer's table when he wasn't looking.

I want to protest, but I realize that words will never work. Finch steals all the time.

Because where I am a lair, Finch is a swiper.

_**Mayhem: Wow, this girl is really depressing. I think I need to go get a fish cookie or something!**_

_**Reaper: Fish cookie? **_

_**Mayhem: Yep! My favorite ones are the ones with tuna fish in them.**_

_**Reaper: O-O OK . . . Anyway, tells us how we did! Be sure to review.**_

_**Mayhem: Yeah guys! Leave a comment on how the second chapter should end! Maybe I'll make you a fish cookie!**_

_**Reaper:_ okay, what's a fish cookie? Are you a cat or something?**_

_**Mayhem: Nope! Just a hungry shark. But a cat does sound good to eat… Do you have a recipe for cat kabobs?**_

_**Reaper: OAO YOU'LL NEVER GET PRINCESS PETALS ALIVE! *bolts to save cat***_

_**Mayhem: Calm down… not your cat! Yuck, too much hair! It would get stuck in my chompers!**_

_**O.O**_


	2. Chapter 2: A Truce that Breaks Silence

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Willow looked up at me as if I was some sort of different person, her one eye portraying doubt. I know that she doesn't approve of me stealing from Overseers, but sometimes I have to commit hard graft. It's not like she's not in the wrong too: she can lie so easily through her teeth it's unbelievable.

"Well, let's eat up," I reply, taking a seat at the 'table.' I set the butter out on a clean leaf, and the pine in a pile next to it. I had also managed to strip a berry bush so we'd have a small treat.

The moment the food's on the table, we divide it equally. We each get two loafs of stale bread, half of the stick of butter, an apple, a small handful of wild berries and pine, and we share the jug of water as it is. Immediately, my little sister is scarffing down the food, barely taking time to breathe. She doesn't even touch the water jug until she has finished her bread and needs the water to wash it down. She eats the pine in one mouthful, and takes gigantic bites out of the apple, eating all the way down to the core, even eating the seeds. Finally, the berries are carefully eaten. Willow eats them one at a time, slowly chewing the sweet berries. I smile as she smiles, because I'm glad she likes them. Willow always loved wild berries.

Of course, my eating habits are not much better. I probably ate my meal just as messily as her, and I can feel the butter reaching ear to ear. Of course, there is not much we can do to restrain ourselves when it comes to our meals. We get food how we can, and we have to eat all of it to keep ourselves healthy enough to do the work.

I watch as Willow finishes her berries slowly, savoring the fruit. She seems so happy, smiling in delight. I know that she only smiles when she's here, away from others and alone. At home, she never smiles or says anything. She only talks when she has to at school and at work. Never at home or around our father. Or me.

It was necessary for us to come here, because I needed to discuss something with her. I know she will not like it, and neither will I. I mean, no one likes the afternoon of May 8th, where two children are chosen to die for the sick pleasures of the idiots of the Capitol, but it is mandatory.

"We've made it past death together this far," I begin. Willow stares at me, her hand hovering in the air on its way to her mouth, a red berry in her fingers. "We don't know who will be chosen this time. We've only had one victor in our lifetimes. All I hope is that neither of us are chosen."

Willow sits and stares at me. She has set her hand down, and the red liquid of the berry she was holding runs down her pale skin, staining it red. These talks hurt us both, a lot. After mother died, the daughter of a friend of hers, Robin Starshade, took care of us. She was like a replacement mother for a while, but then when she was eighteen, she was chosen for the Reaping. She died in the Hunger Games, drowning in quicksand under the malice gaze of a District Four boy.

The Reaping always brings back memories of that time. Already, I have been woken during the night with Robin's name on my lips. Willow has had nightmares about drowning in quicksand, and commonly wakes me up with her screaming. It is a stressful time for us, on top of the Reaping, school, work and our father.

"We will be fine," I tell her, trying to sound as calm as possible. "I won't let you go up there, not without a fight." She stands up abruptly, fists clenched. I'm afraid I've hit a nerve, but instead she holds out her hand. She holds two berries left: wild raspberries. They are extremely rare in this part of the woods, and I was lucky enough to find them.

She grabs my hand and places one of the berries in my palm. Then she holds the other in hers. Her gaze meets mine. "May the odds be ever in your favor," she says, sounding flat and unemotional. And yet her words make me smile.

I hold out my hand far away from me, just like Willow has done. "As to you," I agree with her, then at the same time, we throw the berries into the air. They criss-cross at the same place, then fly past each other. I open my mouth wide, and Willow's berry lands on my tongue, and mine catches on her lips. We swallow the raspberries at the same time, a ceremony for good luck we always do the day before the Reaping.

And yet there is this odd feeling in my stomach, a sickening sensation that makes me wary of everything. I stare at my little sister, wondering about just what will happen in our future. I can't shake the feeling off. And it's scaring me silly.

A horn blows, signaling the end of meal time. Willow and I take one look at each other, and bolt out of the trees. We ignore the burrs digging into our skin and clothes, although Willow has her hand protecting her eye patch. It almost falls off, and she has to stop to fix it. Luckily, we make it out of the woods in time for our job shifts. She looks back at me, her green eye glistening. I have no idea how she got green eyes, but it doesn't matter too much. I smile back and hurry to the Axe men, ready to spend another afternoon in the unforgivable forest.

Ж

Working with the Axe men is really difficult. For one, the axes we use weigh almost thirty five pounds, making it straining to even lift them. Also, the trees we cut are commonly large with huge trunks, taking five or six people to cut one down in a half hour. Furthermore, the bugs in the forest don't like us one bit. Two people have screamed because of poisonous spiders that have scuttled up the blades of our axes.

Luckily, there are enough trees that we can have some shade during our walk. Sometimes I feel sorry for the Stumpers, they have to work out in the sun. Willow gets lucky to always get the stumps that are in the shade.

After a four mile hike in the mountains, we make it to the work site just in time to see some people getting ratted out for sneaking food out here. As Axe men, we can't take food into the woods for fear that large predators will come and attack us (which is ironic because I was gathering the pine bark before the meal horn even sounded!). The Overseer here, Mistress Eve, is standing over them, her shadow casting an evil filter over the kids. They are about my age, maybe younger, and look fairly new to the group.

Mistress Eve is short but burly, and despite that is still taller than most of us (I'm one of the only people here taller than her, and that's only by a couple inches). She has evil blue eyes and black hair that's cut short, cropped close to her neck. Like most Overseers, she's scarred and shows them off. She commonly rubs it in our faces how brave she is.

"Hey Finch! Over here!" I turn towards the voices, and see a group of teenagers waving and beckoning at me. They are all slightly older than me, and I know them all too well. They are the trouble makers for the Overseers, the slackers, called the Rocks. They protest against them silently by not doing work or pulling pranks on them. The leader, and the oldest, known for being everyone's buddy, is Fang. Tall, lean, sharply handsome. His eyes are pale blue, with silvery-blond hair. The girls at school call us the Desirables.

"Hey brother! How're you doing?" he calls, raising his hand in front of my face. We high-five, and I respond sullenly, "Had a talk with Willow about the Reaping. We did the Berry Truce, but . . ."

"You feel worried?" Fang finishes for me. I have no other answer, so I nod. He smirks, gets me in a headlock, and rubs his knuckles over my scalp. "Cheer up, bro! We're all scared here." Then he exclaims out loud, "I wish we didn't have to show up. That would be the best prank ever!"

The Overseer glances over her shoulder at us (thank god she has bad hearing), and we shut up and turn towards a large tree that we need to chop down. "Fang," I whisper, "if you do that, you'll get in trouble, and be killed on the spot. It's not worth it."

I lower my voice so that only he can hear me. "We all know that the people in the Capitol are just a large group of stupid barbarians who wear makeup."

Fang snickers and replies, "The difference between them and barbarians is one will skin you alive and eat you later for their dinner, just because you said hi to them, and the other is a barbarian!" We laugh, then raise our axes and get down to hacking away.

We're lucky today: the smog has cleared considerably, so we make good progress. We manage to cut down six large trees, and today there have been no deaths (first time in a month). The end of the day comes quicker than I wanted to, and I'm upset to see that the sun has dipped below the horizon of the trees. Mistress Eve blows the four-note melody on her horn signaling the end of the day.

"Good job today, maggots," she booms. "You guys have definitely improved. You get your morning off tomorrow. I will see most of you," she motions to those of us eighteen and under, "at the Reaping. May the odds be ever in your favor." Her last words ring in my ear: it is the first nice things she's ever said to us. And will probably be the last.

We leave the fallen trees where they are, and sprint back to the clearing where the Stumpers are so I can meet Willow. Four miles in less than twenty minutes: and people wonder why I'm such a good thief!

I meet her just as she's leaving the old barn. Her hair is drooping sadly over her frame, swaying in the light breeze. I've asked her to get it cut, but she doesn't want to. Our mother always had long hair that she could sit on, and I guess Willow wants to do the same thing.

She catches my eye and makes her way towards me. Then she frowns in my direction and we walk silently towards home. We try to walk as slowly as possible, we don't want to spend too much time with our abusive dad. This works sometimes, but usually he storms out of the house looking for us. It's like we are the only memory left of his dear wife.

But when we get to the house, the door is hanging off two hinges, which is not like our father. He doesn't want anyone "breaking in." The door doesn't have a lock on it, it rusted off years ago.

I make a hand signal to Willow, telling her to wait outside. She nods her head and slinks off, away from the house. I sneak into the door, and hear some voices muffled by the walls. Quietly, making no noise at all, I creep into the hallway and sneak a glance around the corner.

Peacekeepers are everywhere. Two hold my father down, while another stands in front of him. Two more I can see in my room, shuffling through everything. My father looks buzzed again, only now he really does look fearful.

"You have been charged with child abuse," the Peacekeeper announces, "and therefore, you must go to prison. Your children will be put in the Orphanage."

"What the frick you sayin'?" Dad slurs, proof that he's drunk off his butt. Right then I realize what was going on. I had to get what little belongings we had left out of house and into the woods. I had to get Willow.

Being as silent as one can be with a beating heart, I dart back out of the house and go around back. The window to my and Willow's room was still open, thank god, and the Peacekeepers have already left. Using the vines that grow all over the sides of the house, I climb up the wall and tumble into the room. I wait a few minutes, in case the police come back but they don't. I grab an extra set of clothes, one for Willow and one for me, a few notebooks, some pencils, and a necklace. Then I jump back out the window and rush to Willow.

She's come back towards the house with a curious look in her eye. Before she can ask, I grip her arm and drag her away from the house, back to the woods. She's grunting, yanking on my hand, trying to get free. I don't let her, and sprint faster. We make it to the woods, just barely dodging the police.

We make it into the woods, and to our stone table in the clearing. I flop down on the grass, and Willow breathes heavily, not used to running so fast. Then again, neither am I. My bundle of stuff hit the table smoothly, and Willow limps over and picks it up. It unravels at her touch, spilling the clothes, papers, and the necklace. She picks up the jewelry and looks at me, confused.

"It used to be Mom's," I answer. The necklace was strung with a thin rope of vines, and the stone beneath was beautiful granite. Carved into it was a Willow tree, and on the other side was a Finch. I have the same necklace that I made myself, usually keeping the Finch side up. "It caught my eye, and I thought you'd like it."

There was silence for a moment, then a whimpering sound. Willow was crying, only at the same time grinning weirdly. Her hands fumbled with the vines, trying to fit it over her head. It slid over her hair and settled against her skin. Her eye is glistening with unshed tears, and her smile wavers as she weeps in happiness.

I have to smile too. Maybe her anger against me has finally dwindled enough for her forgiveness. I hold out my necklace as far as the vine rope will allow, and Willow mirrors my actions. Her amulet has the willow tree facing away from her, and my finch is facing away from me. I smile brightly, finally happy for the first time in six years.

And Willow does the one thing that I have missed for so long.

She giggles in delight.

_**Reaper: And a one and a two and a DERPPITY DERP DERP DERP!**_

_**Mayhem: Uhh . . . may I ask what you're doing? It's kinda scaring me.**_

_**Reaper: What? I like to say derp.**_

_**Mayhem: No, it's fine . . . it's just derp is a weird word.**_

_**Reaper: Yerp, I guess you're right.**_

_**Mayhem: You could make a poem; Title it The Yerp Derp**_

_**Reaper: Herp derp derp herp derp**_

_**Yerp herp derp herp derp yerp derp**_

_** Yerp yerp derp herp derp**_

_**Mayhem: I don't know about you . . . but I'm gunna run away and eat cat kebobs. No fur included. :D**_

_**Reaper: OAO LEAVE MAH KITTIES ALONE!**_


End file.
